


Every Step You Take

by Theatretrash182



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-07 03:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theatretrash182/pseuds/Theatretrash182
Summary: Jack is an old man now. The year is 1933. He finally made it to Santa Fe. What happened? How did he end up there? Guess you'll just have to read this to find out.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is polished trash, please forgive me. (All the facts are, to my knowledge, historically accurate). Give it a chance, you never know, you may like it.  
> (This mixes facts from the movie and the musical).

You have to live with the choices you make.

They don't teach you that in school. 

But then again, Francis never got a lot of schooling anyway.  
He sighed and rubbed at his face, then began absent-mindedly picking at the scabs and flecks of dirt that lined his tan, wrinkled arms.  
Being a common laborer at 51 was hard. Francis's arms ached, and his feet kicked up the dust on the road, too tired to do anything but shuffle anymore.  
He knew he was lucky to even have a job. The market crash of 1929 had been the end of many more men than just him.  
He was nothing special.  
A smile played on his lips as he remembered a time when he thought he was special. A time when the world was his and no one else's.  
The harsh screams of a baby crying interrupted his thoughts.  
'It's probably hungry,' Francis thought. Then shook his head. A lot of people were hungry these days, it wasn't the mother's fault there was a depression going on.  
The setting sun beat down on him, turning the sandstone buildings that dominated Santa Fe golden.  
He passed by a line of storefronts, each advertising a different product that no one could afford anymore.  
One store had a cardboard sign out front, the words: 'closing sale!' were painted on it in black paint.  
They weren't the first store to go out of business, they wouldn't be the last.  
The next store he passed was a printing press.  
There was nothing special about it. Its paint used to be yellow, but now it was an off white and peeling from the wood. The roof was caving in, and there were holes in the rickety porch out front.  
A boy sat on the steps trying to sell newspapers, shouting out the headline to passersby: "Pulitzer's daughter dies of heart attack! Whole community in mourning!"  
Francis stopped.  
'No,' he thought.  
Slowly, slower than he had ever moved before, he walked toward the boy.  
"You wanna buy a paper mister?" the boy asked, hopeful.  
Francis shook his head, unable to speak.  
The boy's face fell, then became guarded, "why did you stop then? If you're a beggar move along, we don't give handouts."  
Francis opened his mouth, closed it, tried again, "can I see that paper for a minute? I'd just like ta read tha headline."  
The boy held the paper so Francis could read it, but wouldn't give it to him.  
Francis leaned in close, his eyes weren't what they used to be.  
"Katherine 'Plumber' Pulitzer Dies Of Heart Attack, All Of New York In Mourning."  
His eyes glazed over and he shifted his slight frame to sit next to the boy.  
A single tear streaked down his dusty face.  
The boy leaned away from him.  
"Hey mister, are you ok?" he asked.  
Francis sniffed and nodded.  
"I knew it would happen someday. I just...thought I had more time. I thought I would be able ta see her one last time," he answered.  
The boy nodded, then shook his head, "wait, do you mean the girl? Did you know Pulitzer's daughter?!"  
Francis glanced at him, "yea, I knew 'er. She is...was tha most amazing girl I'd eva met. You could even have said I loved 'er," he smiled, "once upon a time."  
"What happened?" the boy asked.  
Francis sighed, "that's a long story."  
The boy set aside the paper in his hands and leaned against the wooden pillar beside the steps.  
"I've got time," he said.  
Francis frowned, "I gotta get home kid."  
"Why? You can starve here just as well as there," he said.  
With a sigh Francis shook his head and moved to hoist himself up.  
"Wait!" the boy sat up. "What if we make a trade? You tell me that story, and I'll give you this paper." He looked around to make sure no one was listened, then whispered, "free of charge."  
Francis settled back down onto the porch.  
"Hmmm. Ya drive a hard bargain kid." He sat there rubbing his chin, thinking. "Alright, I'll tell ya tha story for tha paper." He spat into his palm and held it out for the boy to shake.  
The boy stared horrified at the dripping palm. But then shrugged and spit into his own.  
Shaking hands, they sealed the deal.  
The boy leaned back against the pillar, settling in for what he could tell was going to be a good story. 

It took a moment for Francis to start speaking. How do you sum up your entire life? Where do you start?  
Finally he began, "Ma parents named me Francis. Francis Sullivan. But I didn't always go by that name," he smiled, "when I was young, and invincible, and tha world was mine, everyone called me Jack Kelly."


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack begins his story. What happened? What went wrong? Read and find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the best of my knowledge this is historically accurate. (This is polished trash, so please read with forgiveness).

Suddenly, Francis was back in Medda Larkin's concert hall, looking over his shoulder, waiting for Snyder to come bursting through the doors and drag him back to the refuge.  
"Sure you can stay here darlin. Now, what did you say your name was again?"  
"Ma name? It's uhm..." Francis looked around the concert hall, full of workmen and women rushing from one place to another. He knew he couldn't give this woman his real name, Snyder would be sure to find him that way. "Ma name is..." what was a name everyone in New York had? "Jack. Ma name is Jack," his eyes locked onto a poster for a vaudeville star named Kelly, "Kelly. It's uhm, Jack Kelly."  
The woman looked at him with suspicion but didn't press him. "Well, my name is Medda. Medda Larkin. The greatest staaar in theater," she said, emphasizing the word star. She smiled and tucked her thick black curls back under her feathered pink hat. "Theater just doesn't know it yet," she whispered, then chuckled at her own joke. "Come on, you look exhausted, let me take you somewhere you can rest for a bit," she motioned for him to follow her.  
Medda led him off the stage and through an oaken door. It opened into a long hallway lined with doors. Lamps lit the narrow space and as they walked he saw each door had a name plate fixed next to it on the wall.  
They stopped at a door whose name plate said: Medda Larkin.  
Medda swung the door open, revealing a small, square space. To the left was a mirror that was as big as the wall itself, making the room appear bigger. Propped against the mirror was a wooden desk filled to overflowing with makeup, hat boxes, and other trinkets of all shapes and sizes. Shoved into the right corner behind the door was a small round table and chair. The rest of the space was filled with overstuffed couches and pillows.  
"You can sleep on one of those," Medda pointed to the couches, "I have a show in an hour so, if you wake before that, stay here. I'll come back after the show, then we can find you some nicer clothes and somewhere to take a bath." Her eyes trailed up and down his slight frame.  
Suddenly, Jack felt self conscious.  
He saw himself through her eyes: long oily brown hair curtaining a thin freckled face, faded, ripped clothes that were either too small or too big for him, dirt and grime wrapped around his body like a blanket.   
He started fidgeting under the heat of her gaze, but then she turned away and, without another word, disappeared through the door again.  
At first Jack didn't want to sleep. He knew he should stay awake and watch for Snyder. But the couches looked so comfortable, so inviting. The stresses of the day finally crashed into him and before he knew it, he was sinking into the plush cushions and closing his eyes.  
He was still asleep when Medda came back from her performance, she would have to get the couch he slept on replaced, there were probably lice in it now. But she let him sleep anyways.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Medda takes Jack to the bathhouse so he can get clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is polished trash, and also a little rushed so....sorry.

Jack woke with a start.  
For a second, he couln't remember where he was. Then it all came rushing back to him, the refuge, his escape, Medda Larkin...  
Quickly he uncurled from the couch and started pacing the room. Had Snyder shown up asking about him yet? If he had, had Medda told him anything? Were they waiting outside the door? Ready to take him back to the refuge the moment he stepped outside? 

"What's a refuge?" The little boy interrupted.  
Francis stopped his story, pulled back to the porch steps of a printing press and the desolate dryness of Santa Fe.  
"What?" Francis asked.  
"You said you escaped from 'the refuge' but what is that?"  
Francis paused, "it was a...a home...no, a prison. For orphaned boys who had nowhere else ta go. The government got tired of orphans clogging tha streets, so thay made refuges. Thay would pay tha patrons ta take care of tha boys. Tha more boys, tha more money tha patron got ta take care of them. But Snyder, tha man in charge of the refuge I escaped from, would steal boys off tha street and force them into the refuge. Just so he could get more money. And when he did get tha money he would use it for himself, not on the boys."  
"Oh," the boy was silent for a second, "how did you end up there?"  
Francis stared at his feet,"My pop went ta prison when I was little, and I never knew my ma. I was left on tha streets of New York City, and that's where Snyder found me. I lived there for three years. Finally I made up a plan and escaped in the carriage of Theodore Roosevelt."  
"What?!" The boy sat up in shock, "you met Theodore Roosevelt?!"  
Francis smiled, "yea, I met him. Not particularly in that instance, but I met tha guy."  
"What was he like?"  
"I'll get ta that part, just be patient," Francis closed his eyes, "now where was I?" 

Jack woke with a start.  
What if Snyder was waiting for him? Waiting to take him back...  
He jumped when the door swung open, but it was only Medda carrying a pile of new clothes.  
"Oh good, you're awake," she said, tossing the clothes onto the opposite couch. "I procured these from a church, I don't know your size, so I selected a few different shirts and pants and you can see which ones fit the best."  
Jack nodded gratefully. Rifling through the clothes he chose a light blue shirt with a darker navy vest and some pinstripe brown slacks. At the last second he grabbed a crumpled red bandanna off the top of the pile and followed Medda as she led him through the back of the theater.  
Jack stopped short when they reached the exit, realizing they were leaving the theatre, anxiety nailed his boots to the floor. What if Snyder was waiting just outside the door? What if Medda was trying to trick him? What if-  
"What are you waiting for?" Medda asked.  
"Where-*ahem*-where are we going?" Jack asked instead of answering, getting ready to make a break for it. Medda looked at him as if he had just grown two heads.  
"We are going to get you a bath," she answered, emphasizing the word bath.  
Jack squinted at her, not knowing whether to trust her or run.  
But before he could make the decision she had yanked the door open and was marching into the clogged streets of New York City.  
He had no real choice but to follow her.  
Medda walked with a purpose in her step, without a word people would move to make a path. Jack had to jog to catch up with her, ducking whenever he saw anyone sporting a black bowler hat like the one Snyder wore.  
It seemed like they walked forever, but finally they stopped at a large, square, brick building. Men and women, all poor and dirty, flowed through the double doors at the top of a row of stairs.  
Thick black letters had been carved into a sign above the doors that read: Centre Market Place People’s Baths.  
Jack looked at Medda, confused, “you took me ta a bathhouse?” He asked.  
“Don’t act so surprised Jack, you’re filthy. And, meaning no offense, but you probably have lice and all other assortments of vermin living on your person.”  
Jack blushed, “I don’t have lice,” he said as he scratched a spot on his arm, then stopped when he realized he wasn’t helping his point.  
Medda chuckled and handed him a nickel, “give this to the man at the door and he’ll give you some soap and a towel. Then head straight and you’ll see the pools. Now, if you don’t shine when I see you again I’ll send you right back in there to do it all over again.” Pushing him toward the door she said, “I’ll be around here when you get out, so just come looking for me in one of the stores along here when you’re done.”  
Jack watched her disappear into the crowd, then turned back toward the bathhouse.  
He watched as mothers and fathers, girls and boys, and everyone in between hiked up the steep steps with nickels in hand.  
Taking a deep breath he clutched the new clothes to his side and plunged into the crowd.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack makes a friend (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this is actual trash. Not polished trash, just actual trash. Sorry.  
> P.S. Snipeshooter is real. He's the kid in 'Carryin The Banner' who stole the cigar. (I looked it up).

The bathhouse was, as expected, crowded with hordes of people.  
As Jack passed through the double doors he was ushered into another line, this one made up of men only. Another line across the room was made up of women only.  
The lines led through two doors, with guards at each door. A sort of wooden collection box was clutched in the guards' hands and as the man or woman passed through they would drop their nickel and collect a thin strip of soap and a towel. Then they would be ushered into the bathhouse.  
The actual bathing rooms were just huge indoor pools.  
When Jack got to the head of the line he dropped his nickel into the heavy wooden box, and gathered the soap and towel in his other arm. Moving through the doorway he stuck close the brick walls, trying to find a safe place to hide his clothes. The space was cramped with people. Men coming in an out of the pool, cleaning themselves with the thin slabs of soap, drying off with the towels and changing into their clothes.  
Shuffling along the tiled floors that had once been white, but now were stained a moldy yellow, he saw that everyone else was hanging their towels and clothes on the railings that surrounded the pool. Deciding to do the same he undressed and, hanging his old and new clothes as well as his towel on the railings he descended into the pool with soap clutched in hand.  
He couldn't remember the last time he had had a real bath.  
The water was cool, if not dirty, and Jack relished the feeling of the soap as it made suds along his arms and chest.  
He ran the soap through his hair, lathering it until the thin slab was gone. After he had dunked his head in the water he turned back to grab his clothes on the railing, but they were gone.  
Frantically he cast his eyes around the open space. They landed on a kid, not much bigger than himself, with a pile of clothes heaped in his arms.  
"Hey!" Jack shouted.  
The kid glanced back, locked eyes with Jack, turned and ran.  
“He-stop!” He yelled after the retreating figure. Stumbling to get out of the water he grabbed the towel, which the kid had left in his hurry to get away, and ran after him.  
“Thief!” Jack yelled, pushing men aside as he ran. Before the kid could duck out of sight Jack grabbed at his collar and yanked him back, causing him to throw the bundle of clothes into the air.  
"Lemme go!" the kid squirmed as clothes rained around them. Jack shoved him away and knelt to grab his clothes, now damp from the wet floor.  
"What's tha big idea? Stealin a man's clothes practically off his back!" He shouted. The kid hung his head and knelt to pick up the remaining clothes.  
"How many poor saps have you stolen from today?" Jack accused. The kid shrunk at his harsh voice, awkwardly piling the clothes into his arms again.  
"I dunno, four or five maybe, what's it to ya. You got ya clothes back, now leave me alone," he said, and turned to leave.  
Jack watched as he walked slowly away, noticed the kid was rail thin and drowning in his clothes, and, sighing, called after him,"wait!"  
The kid stopped, turned around warily.  
"What's your name?" Jack asked.  
The kid smirked,"Snipeshooter."  
"You got any parents?"  
He shook his head quickly.  
Jack nodded, it made sense for other orphans to have fake names too, "My name's Jack, why ya gotta steal Snipeshooter?"  
"Cause bein a newsie doesn't pay all the bills," he answered.  
"A newsie?" Jack asked.  
Snipeshooter cackled, "you gotta be kiddin me! You aint neva heard of a newsboy before?!"  
Jack huffed in exasperation, "yea I know what a newsboy is, I just neva heard it referred to as a newsie before."  
"Yea well, that's what we call ourselves: newsies. Now are ya done playin twenty questions yet? I need ta get goin."  
Jack waved him off, "yea yea, I'm done. Now get outta my face, you're ruinin my fresh soapy smell."  
Snipeshooter made a face at him and turned around. Jack watched him walk away, then turned to find a bathroom to change in.  
It was only after he had dressed in his new clothes did he realize that Snipeshooter had taken his red bandana. Sighing he counted it as a loss, knowing he would probably never see the kid again.  
Once he had left the bathhouse he found Medda shopping in one of the nearby stores and from there they went to a restaurant next to the playhouse she worked at.  
"Now," she said as the waiter set their food down, "what is it that you're good at?"  
"What?" Jack asked, he hadn't been listening in the face of all that food. He had never seen so much in his life.  
Medda sighed, "I asked what you were good at, we need to get you a job today."  
“Why?” Jack shifted in his chair, an idea forming in his head, “why can’t I just live with you?”  
“Live with me!?” Medda exclaimed. “Oh Jack, you can’t live with me, I-I’m never at home, I can’t cook, I don’t know the first thing about taking care of children.”  
“But I could come to the theatre with you and we could eat here everyday! I don’t take up much space Medda, I promise I won’t make a lot of noise or get into any trouble! I-“  
“Jack, Jack, stop. I know that if you did come live with me you would be better than peach pie, but...” she sighed, “I’m no mother, never have been, and I never will be.” She paused as his face fell, “but I’ll tell you what, whenever you’re feeling down, or tired, or you just wanna come see me, then you can march right into my theatre and ask for Medda alright?”  
Jack sighed and nodded.  
He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could something caught his eye.  
Turning he locked eyes with Snipeshooter. He stood across the street with a stack of papers in his hand.  
“Hey,” Jack shouted, waving him over.  
Snipeshooter frowned and, looking both ways, bolted across the street.  
“Well well well, if it ain’t mr. twenty questoins! What are you doin here, dinin’ with this lovely lady?” He said, bowing when he caught sight of Medda.  
“Jack,” Medda smiled, “who is your well mannered friend?”  
Snipeshooter grinned a toothily, “Snipeshooter at yer service ma’am, but you can call me Snipe.”  
“Well Snipe, how do you know Jack?”  
Snipe leaned against the railing that separated the restaurant from the street. “We met at tha bathhouse, he was inquirin ‘bout working as a newsie.”  
“Really Jack?!” A smile lit up her face, “why didn’t you say anything before?”  
Jack scowled at Snipe, “I didn’t-“  
“Ah he probably didn’t wanna get yer hopes up ma’am. Bein a newsie is a cutthroat business.”  
“Well, are there any openings as of now?” Medda asked.  
“Ya know, there just might be,” Snipe winked at Jack, “let ‘im come with me and I’ll see what I can get the boss man to say.”  
“Wonderful,” Medda clapped her hands together, “Jack, once you’ve met with the boss come back to the theatre and tell me all about it alright?”  
“Medda I,“ Jack sighed glaring at Snipe, “yea, I’ll be sure ta do that.”  
He stood up from the table, casting a longing glance at the food still piled on the table.  
“Don’t worry Jack, I’ll bring your food back to theatre, you can eat it later,” Medda said.  
Jack nodded gratefully, then hopped over the railing to join Snipe.  
They were silent as Snipe guided him past Medda's theater and toward the poorer part of town.  
Jack finally decided to break the silence, "Hey, uhm...thanks for helpin me get this job."  
Snipe scoffed, "who said I was helpin you get a job?"  
"What?" Jack slowed down.  
"You gotta give a little to get a little Jackie boy, nothin comes free out here."  
"But you said-"  
"I know what I said, and I meant it. You just gotta help me with a little something first ok? Then I promise ta get you a job as a newsie."  
"I never agreed-"  
Snipe scoffed, "No one agreed to this life Jack, but hey, we're here aren't we? Mise-as-well enjoy the ride yea?"


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack goes with Snipeshooter to see his sister and maybe convince her to come back home.

Jack had thought about simply walking away multiple times, but his curiosity made him follow Snipe down one muddy street after another.   
When they had been walking long enough for Jack to be utterly lost, Snipe stopped in front of a narrow alleyway situated between two tenement buildings. The sky was blocked by laundry, hung like billowing jewels from one fire escape to another. The ground was clogged with all kinds of people; children playing with rats, mothers cooking over an open fire, old men sitting on wicker chairs smoking pipes or sleeping, but Snipe didn't stop for any of these. Walking past them he stopped at a door that had been knocked off its hinges and positioned back over the door frame instead of being reattached. A group of women stood off to the side, smoking and laughing at something one of them had said. 

When Snipe knocked on the broken door the women stopped their joking, one of them smiled and said, "heeeey, Snipe, good ta see ya again. Whatchya doin here? Come ta see your sista?" 

Snipe smiled back at her, "yea Tersa, I'm here ta see her, how've you been?" 

Tersa gave him another smile, this one bigger than the last, but it only managed to make her look even more tired than before. Jack realized all the girls looked tired, and it seemed as if dirt was the only thing keeping them together at this point. 

"Ah, I'm still on ma feet, ya know?" She answered. 

Snipe gave her a sad smile, "yea, I know what ya mean, you ladies take care of yerselves m'kay?" 

Tersa chuckled, "you've always been sweet Snipe, you tell your sister she needs ta do the same." 

Snipe frowned, "what's that supposed ta mean?" 

"Ah, you know, she's always been a hard worker if ya know what I mean," Tersa winked at him. 

The women giggled at Tersa's comment and Snipe's face heated. He turned back to the door and knocked harder this time, running his hands through his hair he looked back at Jack and smiled nervously.   
The door was moved aside to reveal a ginormous man with huge brown mutton chops and heavy eyes that bored into them. 

"What," his gruff voice rang out in the smoky area. 

Snipe straightened, "I came ta see my sista. I brought ma brotha," he motioned to Jack, then looked at the man expectantly.   
The man narrowed his eyes and leaned against the door frame, making it creak under his weight. 

"You said I had ta bring proof that I wasn't alone, well I brought ma brotha who wants ma sista home too," he sighed, "just...let me talk ta her...please?" 

The man stared at Snipe and Jack for what seemed like forever.   
Finally he sighed and stepped aside, revealing a dark, dimly lit apartment.   
Snipe nodded at the man as they passed into the dark rooms.   
The space was cluttered and dirty, Jack’s shoes scraped on the dirt floor, and number of beds sat all around the room, sectioned off by mismatched sheets hung from the ceiling.   
Snipe walked to the back of the room and stopped in front of one of the beds at the back.   
He seemed to shrink from the curtain, getting smaller the closer he got to it.   
When he was close enough to touch it he stopped and just stood there. 

It took a few minutes, but finally he sighed and, calling out, said, “Kitty? It’s me.” 

They heard the bed creak and a small voice answered, “gimme a sec.” 

A few seconds later a scrawny girl yanked the curtains aside. Her hair was black and matted, her dress faded, with holes in the seams. She seemed tired when she laid her eyes on Snipe, sighing, she moved over on the bed for him to sit down.   
The bed creaked when he sat down, he tried to give Kitty a hug but she pushed him away. 

“What did ya come here for Tommy,” she said. 

Snipe looked hurt, “I came ta see ya Kitty,” he dug into his pocket, pulling out a fistful of coins he let them spill on the bed, “I brought this for ya.” 

Kitty sighed, “what’s this Tommy, why’d ya bring this ta me.” 

“So you can come live with me Kitty, please, I can make enough money ta take care of ya, we can be togetha please.” 

Kitty sighed “Tommy we’ve tried that.” 

“It’s what ma and pop woulda wanted.” 

Kitty seemed to shrink, “Tommy...” 

“Please, Kitty, please come home.” 

“What home?” She raised her voice as loud as she dared, angry now, “Dad is dead, mom is long gone, you’re livin in the Newsies boarding house-“ 

“If ya left here we could live in the tenements, we could rent a back room-“

“Tommy we’ve tried that!” she shouted, her voice bounced around the dingy walls of the apartment, silencing his arguments. 

It was met with the sound of heavy footsteps and soon the man who had stood at the door was standing over Snipeshooter. 

“Is he botherin you Kitty?” He asked, angry eyes boring into him. 

“No no, we were just havin a row Milton, everythin’s fine.” 

“Humph,” was all he said, moving back to sit at his place by the door.   
They were both silent after he had left. 

“You need ta go Tommy,” Kitty said. 

“Kitty-“ 

“Please leave,” she cut him off. 

Snipe shot up from the bed, angry now, “fine, but when you die of pneumonia, or cholera, or some otha disease from livin in this rat hole, don’t expect me ta come ta your funeral,” he started marching away but then turned back, “or pay for it!” He threw his empty coin purse onto the floor. 

“Come on Jack,” he said angrily, marching past him. 

Jack nodded to Kitty, then followed Snipe out the door. 

When they were back in the street again, Jack quietly asked, “Hey Snipe?” 

“Yea, what?” He growled over his shoulder. 

“Why did ya need me ta come with ya if you were just goin ta see your sister?” 

Snipe slowed down, “I uh...I told Milton, the man at the door, that he had ta turn my sista out cause my olda brother needed her at home. He told me ta prove it,” he glanced shyly at Jack, “I didn’t wanna get any of ma friends ta do it, I didn’t need their pity ya know?” 

“Then why’d ya take me?” Jack asked. 

“Cause ya look like someone I can trust,” he shrugged, “and I thought that if our friendship started out with this then your opinion of me could only be improved.” 

Snipe sighed, sadness seemed to be crushing him from the inside out. Before Jack could ask him anything else Snipe straightened and smiled at him. 

“But enough about me,” he said, wrapping his arm around Jack’s neck, “let’s get you a job!”


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis’s story gets interrupted and he ponders over what life would’ve been like if he hadn’t left New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes. Hope you enjoy.

The sun was setting by the time Francis had gotten to this part of his story.  
The boy yawned and stretched. 

“Did you get the job?” He asked. 

Francis nodded, “yea I got the job, but that was only tha beginin. You eva heard of the Newsboys strike of 1899?” 

The boy frowned and shook his head, “can’t say I have Jack.” 

Francis shook his head, “I don’t go by Jack anymore kid, just Francis now.” 

“Why?” 

“Because times change, things happen,” he sighed, “all tha people who called me Jack are long dead now.” 

They were silent for awhile, then the boy asked, “what happened in that strike you were talking about?” 

Jack smiled, “me and ma friends, we changed the world. A bunch of men, big shots, they ruled ova us workin class fellas like kings. Doin whateva they wanted, bleedin us workers dry, walkin all over our rights. Well, Davey, Katherine, Crutchie and all the fellas, we got real tired of our rights bein disrespected so we stood up. We fought...and we won!” Jack’s eyes lit up with the glory of the past. “We changed the course of history, gave the workers of this fine country rights...well” he slowed down, “maybe not all of that, but we did something good, me and my friends. We might not have changed the world but...we changed something.” 

The boy frowned, “wait, you said Katherine...do you mean...” he grabbed the paper and pointed to the article, “this Katherine?” 

Francis nodded sadly. “Yes,” he sighed, “we knew each other a long time ago. A lot has happened since then.” 

“Like what?” 

Before Francis could answer, a woman came out of the printing press behind them, she was too thin, like everyone in this town. Her hair was brown and thin, her face dirty and more wrinkled than it should be for a woman of her age.

She gave a tired sigh and said, “John, dinner is ready.” Noticing Francis she frowned, “who’s this?” 

“This is Francis ma, he’s telling me a story.” 

“Well, not anymore he’s not. Go on home now, there’s no room for loiterers at our table.” 

“Aw, but ma, he’s not done with his story.” 

“Oh yes he is, now I said come inside for dinner. And I told you to leave,” she said testily, then went back into the house. 

Francis hoisted himself from the porch. Tipping his head to the boy he said, “I’ll be sein ya John, I’ll come back tomorrow to earn that paper from ya.” 

John nodded, waving goodbye he tucked the paper into his jacket and went into the house. 

Francis smiled, turning he trudged the three miles back to his home: a Hooverville on the edge of town. Shacks constructed from slabs of wood, cardboard, and corrugated metal littered the dusty space sectioned off for the Shanty town.  
Fires dotted the hillsides as families huddled around them, trying to scrape a meal from a can of baked beans or pick the good parts from loaves of burnt bread.  
Francis couldn’t help but realize how different Santa Fe was from what he had first thought.  
He had thought it was the promised land.  
And at first, it was.  
But then the war came, and ate his childlike dreams along with his peace of mind.  
Every night he was haunted with what could have been, if only he’d stayed in New York.  
Some nights were worse than others, but tonight, as he collapsed onto the pile of blankets he called a bed; and looked through the rust holes in his metal roof, he couldn’t help thinking what life would’ve been like if only...  
If only Crutchie hadn’t died.  
If only he hadn’t left for Santa Fe.  
If only the Great War hadn’t happened.  
If only the depression hadn’t hit.  
If only he had listened to Katherine and Davey.  
He fell asleep thinking these things.  
Drowning in a pool of If only’s...


End file.
